Stretch Your Feet
by For the Longest Time
Summary: Malik is a peshmerga recruited by M16 to find his sister in Syria. Bashar is a fighter pilot with the U.S.A.F bombing IS targets in Iraq. Jonathan is a British paratrooper advising Iraqi troops in Baghdad. Sylvia is a British intelligence agent sent with Malik to find her own target. And a person known only as the Lion is an Iranian IRGC member sent to kill the leader of ISIS.


Malik was not what you would call an ordinary man. The twenty-five year old Kurdish man had lived in Iraqi Kurdistan all his life. When he was eighteen, he joined the Peshmerga, or those who faced death. During operations against insurgents he had been injured when a suicide bomber had detonated his car during a routine check at the checkpoint. His father had been killed during the 1991 uprisings and his mother had moved to Great Britain to be with her sisters. Of course he had cousins and uncles and all that, but his closest relative was his mother. During his time in Iraqi Kurdistan he was educated and taught by a British born Kurdish man and learned to speak English.

So when he was twenty-four, he moved to Great Britain. The former peshmerga now lived in London with his mother, working in his mother's restaurant. He was a waiter, a much different change of pace from being a peshmerga.

"Malik, I am heading to the store. Do you need anything?" his mother asked. The restaurant was closed for the day and he was just there out of sheer boredom. The T.V in the backroom worked. So he was there.

_Life is pure boredom punctuated by moments of excitement. _Of course he didn't need anything. He didn't eat much.

"No mom, don't need anything. Just going to watch the news," Malik responded to his mother. He had been watching BBC for as long as he had been in Great Britain.

"Ok Malik, I'm going now. If you need anything just call! And remember to lock the door!" she called out as she exited the restaurant. Malik sighed. He got the remote and turned on the small T.V. Switching it to BBC, he saw something that startled him.

"_It began with the heaviest bombardments on peshmerga forces so far. After their preliminary bombardment, ISIS attacked the town of Zumar. Currently the peshmerga are holding on, but ISIS is pounding them with mortars and captured artillery pieces from their victories against the Iraqi Army in the June offensive. Two dozen peshmerga were injured or killed when the ISIS militants attacked. Kurdish sources claim that fourteen peshmerga were killed while killing one hundred of the militants. Thirty eight were captured. So far, the Kurds are holding on. But with their forces stretched thin and the focus on protecting Irbil, who knows how long will the peshmerga hold on the town and the surrounding villages last?"_

_"In other news in Iraq, the Yezedi were driven from their town of Sinjar. Reports are sketchy, but there are claims that up to five hundred Yezedi were killed and fifty thousand have been driven to Mount Sinjar by ISIS fighters. This means that thousands are stranded without food or water. Kurdish forces are retreating from towns they had entered when the Iraqi Army collapsed earlier this year. The Kurds are focused on defending Irbil and already reports are coming in that Kurdish forces are attempting to shorten their defensive lines. While Zumar remains in their hands, who knows how long it will be until the ISIS juggernaut reaches the town? This is David Richards for BBC News, Iraqi Kurdistan."_

_No. How can the militants reach Zumar already? _He had barely kept up with the fight in North Iraq. The mainstream media in both Great Britain and the United States was focused on Iran and Baghdad. Nobody cared about the Kurds fighting the Islamic jihadists in the north. His uncle Khalid lived in Sinjar. His aunt Halima living in Jalwala. Various relatives living in different towns and cities under the nominal control of the Kurds. And now they were in danger. All he wanted was to go back. But how? He had spent all of his money that he had saved up as a peshmerga to return to his mother in Great Britain.

_But Zumar? Why Zumar? That was where my father was killed. And now it is being attacked by some ISIS garbage. _His anger was building up. Zumar was perhaps the most important town in Malik's memory. He grew up in Irbil, but he remembered taking trips to Zumar to visit his father's grave and to spend time with his aunt who was the last remaining sibling of his father's family.

Rage, pure unaltered rage, was starting in his heart. The ISIS jihadists made his blood boil. Kurdistan deserved to be free. _We deserve to be free. _He barely heard the door open from the front. He wondered who it was. _Who is trying to come in when the restaurant is closed? My mother can't be back from the store. Maybe it is one of the waiters. Or is it Abdul trying to sneak in again? Allah be praised, the man is a great cook but he needs to learn to stay away sometimes! _

Getting up from his chair and his thoughts he opened the door and walked straight into the main room of the restaurant. Candles were unlit and the traditional mosaic art pieces depicting Kurdish women and men eyed him with their colorful pupils.

"I'm sorry but we are closed for today. I apologize-" and he looked up. A woman, perhaps twenty or twenty-one, was looking at a menu near the entrance. One menu was in traditional Kurdish language while the other was in English. She was British that much was to be certain. Her white skin was pale, her black hair sprawled over her shoulders. He assumed it was cold outside because she had a scarf wrapped around her neck and a heavy jacket on. She had high cheekbones, a gorgeous nose, but was perhaps was most dazzling was her look. She was concentrating on the menu like her mind depended on it, going full bore with those gray eyes of her. It was like a sniper looking through the scope at the target. She was kind of cute.

"Oh! I didn't even read the hours. I'm so sorry!" she said in distinctive British accent. Malik did something he hadn't done in a while. He laughed. It felt good.

"It is quite alright. We are closed Mondays. It is probably my fault. I should have locked the door," he replied smoothly.

"I am quite a dolt. Of course it was so bloody cold outside that I had to step inside otherwise I freeze to death. And the one place I saw had to be closed!" she muttered more to herself than to him.

_I need to take my mind off of this Zumar business. Maybe making her some food will distract me for a bit? _Besides he was the only there. He knew how to cook. His mother had taught him to cook when he had returned from Kurdistan and he wasn't terrible at it. Not good enough to be a chef, but it wasn't as if his food poisoned anyone. _And besides...maybe some company will do me some good. And of course, mother would be delighted if the restaurant received a few more customers. _

"Just look at the menu and tell me what you would like to have. My mother would kill me if I kicked out anybody into this cold weather and it is a boring day anyway," he proposed. He saw the gears turning in her head.

At first she tried to protest.

"No I possibly couldn't. I wouldn't try to intrude."

Malik laughed once more.

"You wouldn't. Like I said, my mother would kill me and it is a boring day watching BBC in the back room all day," he commented. Then he mentally slapped himself. _Why did I say that? _Then again he really didn't have a social life. His days consisted of working and then watching Sherlock and BBC.

She smiled. Her white teeth dazzled him.

"Well...in _that _case...what is Maqluba?" she asked curiously. Malik smiled back. _Maqluba _was perhaps his favorite dish. It was a traditional Arab dish in the Levant, made in almost every country in the Middle East.

"It is meat, rice, and fried vegetables placed in a pot before being turned upside down. The vegetables can be fried tomatoes, potatoes, cauliflower, eggplant, and you can have chicken or lamb," he said with as much gusto as he could muster. "It's really good. It is one of my favorite dishes."

"Hmmm...that sounds good. May I have that please?" she asked politely. Malik nodded and she put away the menu. _Well it is time. _

"I shall be back. Please, take a seat anywhere," he said quickly before bouncing back to the kitchen. Then his phone beeped. Taking out the battered IPhone his mother had given him, he saw that it was Abdul. The Turkish cook was not Kurdish but he could cook very well.

"_Sillaw? _What do you need Abdul?"

"Malik. Have you heard?" Abdul's voice sounded panicky. _What does he need this time? _

"Heard about what?" Malik asked curiously.

"_Your sister."_

_What about my sister? She's been living in Edinburgh all this time. Saw her twice in the last year. What happened to her?_

"What about her? What is wrong?" his voice had an edge to it.

"She...she's gone. She's gone to Syria. The government is thinking she is heading to Syria to join the Daesh."

_No. No. No no no no no! What the fuck! WHAT THE FUCK! How can she do this?_

_"Dayk heez!" _

Malik's sister was a devout Muslim. She prayed everyday and inhered strictly to Koranic law. She had studied Religious Studies at the University of Kent. She had hoped to make the Hajj to Mecca one of these days. She had been saving money for years. She worked out of a small apartment selling trinkets and other various items. His sister had not shown any inclination to join the _Daesh _assholes that were killing Kurds. _Her people. Our people. And now she betrayed us. _

And now she had betrayed her people and her family. She had gone to Syria to join the Daesh. Nobody would try to find her. The government would monitor him. His family. Because of what his sister had done. _I have to do something. I have to find her. _

"Abdul...come to the restaurant. We have much to discuss. Be here in an hour," and then he hung up the phone. _There is still the customer to take care of. To keep my mind off this. First Zumar then this? Allah the merciful, I am faithful. But please stop doing this. I pray to you. _

He made the _Maqluba _quickly with lamb. His food was made with anger and hate, anger for his sister and hate for the Islamic State that dared take her away...with their propaganda. But his mind was still plagued with his sister. He would have to get her and return her home. The former _peshmerga _fighter made up his mind then and there. He would find his sister and he would return her home, willing or non-willing. Before the government tried to detain him or his family.

Bringing the _Maqluba _outside to her, he saw that she was on her phone and biting her lip. She looked at him with eyes full of terror. _What now? _

"What is your name?" she asked suddenly. _Why does she want to know my name? _

"Malik. Malik Rahimi," he said cautiously. She looked back at her phone.

"You're the brother of...Leyla. Your her brother. The one from Kurdistan. The former _peshmerga," _she said softly. Her mouth forming a small o in surprise.

_How did she know that? _

"How did you know that?" Malik asked, putting down the food.

"I know Leyla. I was her roommate during college," the woman responded. _What? _

"And why did you want to know who I was?"

"Because I know that Leyla went to Syria. To join ISIS. Let me introduce myself. My name is Sylvia. Sylvia Cole. I'm with MI6."

_Shit._

* * *

><p><em>So this is just a story that will be my little dose of reality into Call of Duty. You won't see any call of duty characters, but hey, its Call of Duty like. Please tell me what you think!<em>


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